Читать книгу The Downside Ghosts Series Books 1-3: Unholy Ghosts, Unholy Magic, City of Ghosts - Stacia Kane, Stacia Kane - Страница 22

“It is not permitted for those outside the Church to inscribe power into their skins. Only purely decorative tattoos are acceptable.”

—The Book of Truth, Laws, Article 420

He took her silence for assent, and brushed past her to come in. “I was up, and I figured you’d be up—you went to the Morton place last night, right?—so I figured, why not. Wanted to find out how that hand is doing, too. Have you been cleaning it?”

He set the bag on her kitchen counter and started unpacking it. Sodium fumes filled the air, along with the scent of damp sausage. It didn’t make her remotely hungry.

Chess’s first instinct was to send him away, but Brain had wanted something to eat. If Doyle was so eager to feed someone he could feed him. They’d get some food into the boy, then Doyle could go away and she could hear what Brain had to say. And if Doyle didn’t like it, too bad. It was awfully presumptive of him to just show up here like that.

“How did you get in the building?”

“Somebody was leaving.” He glanced at her. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but I just wish—”

“Chess?”

Brain stood in the middle of her living room, his cheeks paler than usual. “I gots to go, Chess, sorry, I forgot something I’s supposed to do, aye?”

“But there’s plenty of food, we can talk after—”

“No! I meaning, no, it’s cool. I catch you another time.”

“Brain, don’t—” Too late. The boy moved fast when he wanted to. He was down the stairs before she could get into the hall and stop him. “Shit.”

“Who’s that?”

She shrugged. Now she was going to have to be alone with Doyle. And mountains of food. “Just a kid. He said … never mind.”

“He looked pretty upset.”

“His boss kicked him out.”

“And he wanted to talk about it? Why’d he come to you?” He opened cabinet doors, finally finding her mismatched plates and grabbing two of the three she owned.

“I guess he knew I’d be up.”

“Just like me.” He gave her one of his killer smiles and headed past her into the living room, holding the plates piled high.

“Yeah, um, about that …”

“You’re going to tell me you don’t want me to just come over unannounced, right?” He plunked himself down on the couch, right in the center so if she wanted to sit she’d have to be practically touching him.

“Something like that.”

“I’m sorry. I just … I wanted to talk to you, and not over the phone or on Church grounds.”

“Why?” She perched on the arm of the couch, curious in spite of herself. She never got to hear gossip.

“You know Bruce Wickman, right?”

“I know who he is.” Damn. This was probably going to be the same thing she’d overheard between Bruce and the Grand Elder the other morning.

“He says the City’s going crazy. Like, more than usual after the Festival. He thinks something might be going on.”

“Has he talked to the Grand Elder?”

Doyle nodded. “Says he doesn’t believe him, though. Bruce is scared. He said in ten years of Liaising he’s never seen them like this. He said he’s been having trouble sleeping, that he’s been seeing things. In his dreams.”

Chess cocked an eyebrow. This was sort of interesting, but she didn’t want to let him know that. “And?”

“So I think he’s right. I’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately, too. So have Dana Wright and a couple of other people.”

Dana was a Debunker, like herself and Doyle. It wasn’t unusual for Liaisers to have issues with spirits—if they weren’t careful they could be tailed or even possessed when a spirit refused to leave them after a Liaising, another reason their pay was higher—but Debunkers …

“Randy’s, like, panicking. He actually wanted to sleep at my place last night, he said he’d had some horrible nightmare. Typical, huh?”

Chess laughed, but not unkindly. “Randy’s just having a hard time, I think. Maybe the job is getting to him. He’s been off for a while.”

“Have you been? Having trouble sleeping, I mean?” Doyle leaned closer. “You look kind of tired.”

“I never sleep well.”

“But you don’t usually look tired like this.”

She scooted herself back along the arm of the couch so she wasn’t quite so close to him. “Thanks.”

“I don’t mean it that way. I just … Bruce thinks something is going on. We thought if we could get a few of us together, try and figure out what, we might have enough evidence then to force the Grand Elder to listen.”

“And you want my help.”

He nodded.

Telling him she never slept well wasn’t a lie. She didn’t. Which made it impossible to say if her recent troubled rest was a normal reaction to a fairly stressful few days or something else.

“There’s more, too,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing around like he thought Church spies might be hiding behind her television. “I’ve had nightmares. Like, real ones. And I thought I saw—no. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I already think you’re crazy.”

“Bruce has seen him, too, though. In his kitchen.”

“Seen him? Who?”

Another glance. “The man in the robe,” he said. “The nightmare man.”

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

After a fat line of crushed Nip she didn’t feel like sleep was something she’d need for another couple of days, but that didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t been able to. Whether it was because of Doyle’s information or … something else … she didn’t know, but sleep had done nothing but taunt her while she lay in her bed with the covers piled high, shivering although the room wasn’t cold, watching the hours tick by on her clock until the early afternoon sun streamed through her narrow bedroom window.

Where was Terrible, anyway? She checked the slip of paper Bump had given her along with another package of chemical cheer, and glanced at the faded numbers on the empty storefront. Number seventeen. Her destination was a couple of blocks away yet.

This was stupid, a stupid sidetrip on a stupid job she couldn’t even do thanks to stupid Lex.

Or not just thanks to stupid Lex. What ever she’d seen at the Morton house, what ever it was that Doyle claimed was stalking Church employees … she was beginning to think she wouldn’t be able to handle it anyway. Not if the night before was any indication. Some tough Churchwitch, calling someone else to retrieve her stuff from the spooky haunted house.

A small gang of teenage goons edged down the street toward her in their black bandannas and latex-tight trousers, fanning out like they were about to run an offensive play. Which they probably were. Without making eye contact Chess shrugged her tattered gray cardigan off her shoulders, letting them see her ink. Their formation tightened up. They might not be afraid of the Church, but they’d be stupid not to know Bump had the only Churchwitch in Downside working for him, and everyone was afraid of Bump.

Their fear didn’t keep them from hissing at her and making lewd comments, but those she could ignore. Too bad she couldn’t ignore everything else, and just stay home today listening to records and getting high. Or even doing her actual job. She should be interviewing the Mortons today, not wandering the streets hunting for a tattoo parlor so she could then go find an adolescent boy.

The parlor was easy enough to find, at least. Just walk until the scent of Murray’s hair pomade drifted to her nose, then turn left.

“Looking for Terrible,” she said to one of the greasers guarding the door. Inside the building she heard the unmistakable sounds of hurried movement, not quite drowned out by the Sonics record playing at high volume.

He barely looked up from the hangnail he was trimming with his butterfly knife. “Aye? Business you got witim?”

“Business.”

“Aw, chickie, you don’t gotta keep no secrets from me, I ain’t—”

Terrible’s voice rumbled from the back room. “Quit playin, Rego, an let she in.”

Rego glanced over in that direction, then up at her, really looking for the first time. She hadn’t slipped her sweater back over her chest and upper arms, and when he saw her skin his blue eyes widened.

“Shit. You that—”

Chess didn’t bother to reply. She brushed past him and walked inside, pausing for a moment so her eyes could adjust to the comparative gloom inside. She’d lost her sunglasses again.

The place smelled of antiseptic and smoke, of male bodies and the curious sharp odor of ink and oil. Frames filled with bright flash covered the walls, save one suspiciously clean spot at the left. That explained those frantic scraping movements. The shop dealt in illegal ink, magical symbols only the Church was allowed to use—symbols like the ones covering her own arms and chest, making her easily identifiable. Other people might get the tats, but not where they could be seen; to do so was like asking for a prison sentence and a date with a white-hot iron slab to remove them. She gave a mental shrug. None of her business. Enforcement of nonmoral law was a totally different department, government rather than religion.

It was a very different room from the one where she’d been given her tattoos, in the ceremony that had officially made her a Debunker. That room was a pure, pale blue, bare save the table and the artist’s equipment, and her fellow initiates and the few older Debunkers attending had knelt, chanting, increasing the energy in the room until she’d felt ready to pass out and hadn’t noticed the pain of the needle anymore, or the power searing itself into her.

“What say, Chess?” Terrible interrupted her reverie, glancing up from where he sat with his bare chest pressed against the slanted back of a chair. She hadn’t realized how many tattoos he had, aside from the almost-full sleeve on his left arm and the small script circling the base of his throat. His shoulders were covered, too, and something decorated his left side from underarm to waist and into his pants. If he hadn’t been so wide, dwarfing the chair, she wouldn’t have seen it.

“I want to—” Her mouth snapped shut.

“What?”

“I … What are you having done?” She watched, fascinated and a little disgusted, as the tattoo artist peeled a long, thin strip of bloody flesh from Terrible’s back.

“One more,” the artist said, and Terrible glanced back at him and nodded.

“Terrible … what the fuck?”

“Scar, Chess. You wait. Ain’t had the fun part yet.”

“Um … there’s a fun part?”

The artist came back with a scalpel, shining silver, and bent over. Terrible’s eyebrows twitched, but he stayed silent—they all stayed silent—while the artist cut and peeled off another strip. He blotted the blood with gauze.

“So what happen? You right?”

“Yeah … um …” The artist had a bowl of something now that looked like ashes. As Chess watched, he started rubbing handfuls of it over the wound he’d created—at least she assumed it was over the wound, she couldn’t see it. “Have you seen that kid Brain?”

“Naw, can’t say so. Why?”

“I want to find him. He came by my place this morning, said Hunchback kicked him out, but I—”

“Fuck.” Anger poured over Terrible’s face like molasses. “That squidgepopper. I fuckin told him, ain’t the kid’s fault. We see him, too? I’d sure do with paying him a visit now.”

“Ready, T?” The artist stood behind Terrible, rocking slightly on his feet like he wasn’t sure if he should run or pretend everything was fine. Chess didn’t blame him. She was half ready to run herself, her legs twitching and her heart pounding. She was jumpy enough, she didn’t need two hundred and seventy pounds or so of furious man in front of her.

“Do it.”

Terrible clenched the opposite sides of the chair back, his biceps popping, as the artist drew closer. In his hand he clutched what looked like a small disposable cigarette lighter. What the …?

He flicked his thumb. Terrible’s fingers tightened, his eyes shut, as the gunpowder packed into his open wound flared in a sharp, cauterizing burst of flame. Chess gave a high-pitched squeal that embarrassed her before it even left her mouth, but it was either lost in the smattering of applause or the men tactfully ignored it. Or they were afraid of what she might do if they made fun of her, which was the more likely. Most people had a highly inflated idea of what kinds of powers she had—unless they were dead, she couldn’t do much to them. Of course, there was no point in clarifying. Why take away that protection?

She watched as the artist brought a couple of mirrors and angled them so Terrible could take a look, managing to catch a glimpse herself while he adjusted them. Lines, an impression of wings? The mirror moved too quickly for her to tell, but Terrible was apparently pleased. At least he didn’t look any angrier than usual as the artist began smearing antibiotic cream on the wound and applying gauze pads with tape.

It was strange to see him without a shirt on, though. Chess tended to think of his bowling shirts as armor, and stripped of them he … well, he still looked like a tank.

A surprisingly attractive tank. Tattoos and scars decorated his bare skin and a patch of thick dark hair spread over his chest and dipped down in a thin line to his waist, but underneath them was solid, sculpted muscle, exquisitely delineated, obviously created from real work and not trips to a gym.

He glanced at her, then looked again with an eyebrow cocked, and she realized she was frankly staring. Heat rushed to her face as her fingernails suddenly became fascinating to her. It wasn’t until she heard him saying goodbye that she looked up again.

Together they passed Rego, back out onto the bright street. Terrible had sunglasses, sleek black ones he snapped on the moment they left the doorway.

“So who? Hunchback? Where Brain go, he still at yours?”

“No, he took off.” She sketched out the conversations she’d had with him, and how he’d left before he could tell her what ever it was he seemed to be hinting at. “I think he might have seen the people who killed Slipknot. Maybe not the actual murder, but the same people.”

Terrible leaned against his car and rubbed his chin, sunlight glinting off the spikes of his armband and the thick silver chain he wore on his wrist. “Aye, sound like it to me. I ain’t know where Brain rest. Got any clues?”

She shook her head.

“Look like we go see Hunchback after all.” His grin sent a shiver of fear through her body.